Purgatory
by ribbonelle
Summary: Optimus couldn't imagine a life without Prowl. He didn't want to imagine a life without Prowl.


**WARNINGS: NECROPHILIA, NON-CONSENSUAL SEX (due to the literal lack of agreement to sexual acts).**

this fic is sort of an extension from this drabble [ribbonelledottumblrdotcomslashpostslash98411567862slash30dashzombiedashau]_and it ain't necessary to read that, but it sure is related. prowl died but he came back, and prime deals with it. i doubt this is as scary as i wanted it to be, more disturbing and unsettling but hey that's good enough for me :') i am also sorry. i'm pretty sorry, yeah._

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><p>"What are you doing, Optimus?"<p>

The question was uttered against his audial, whispered words in the voice that he was so familiar with, gelid arms resting over his shoulders. An even colder frame pressed against his back.

Optimus Prime felt something that was akin to dread in his spark, but forcibly dismissed it. There was nothing to fear. Not with Prowl.

He turned his head, a small smile curving his lips. The movement prompted Prowl to trail his lip components across Optimus' audial, but the mech ceased the contact soon enough, his visor bright as their optics met.

"What do you mean, my friend?"

Prowl's little smile never wavered, his voice still hushed, as if wary that someone would overhear them, "You know what I mean."

It was like spark-deep instinct to lie, Optimus knew they could never have that particular conversation; he'd never be ready, "Of course I do." He gently pulled Prowl's head down to meet cold lip components, a ghost of a kiss, swallowing any words Prowl meant to utter in reply.

He broke their contact with a light brush of his thumb along Prowl's cheek, fondness a tangible thing in his spark. He truly felt for Prowl. His emotions for this particular colleague of his was almost unparalleled, intoxicating and exciting, a pleasant weight in his chest whenever he touched the mech. He adored Prowl, and nothing that had happened changed the sentiment. He would always love Prowl.

Even as he noticed that the mech's smile stayed the same, as if painted, Prowl's own emotion seeming forged as it was translated onto his faceplates. Like a template. Like it wasn't real.

"If you say so, Optimus," Prowl said nevertheless, and that voice always made Optimus feel helpless and utterly lovestruck, and nothing else mattered.

/

Ratchet wasn't a mech that had much subtlety; if he stared, he stared, and it would be impossible to not notice his gaze. So when Optimus realized that Ratchet was stealing glances at him, brief, little squints, he knew that something serious was on his medic's mind. Ratchet's field was always tinged with concern, due to his profession. But the concern that Optimus could detect from him now seemed to be heavier, darker, and it was beginning to bother the Prime a little.

"What seems to be the problem, Ratchet?"

The medic flinched, apparently surprised, and spent some time clearing his throat before actually speaking, "Nothing, Optimus. Yer in good health. Perfect condition."

Optimus raised an optic ridge, "Alright. Thanks to you, of course. You do know that you can tell me anything, don't you?"

"I uh, yes. I know. How are ya, Optimus? I mean, how've you been doing? Everything okay?"

"Quite fine. I mean, all of us are doing pretty okay, aren't we?" He smiled slightly, trying to come off as reassuring. Ratchet rarely ever expressed apprehension this way, and it was a nice thought that his crew did care about his well-being, but since Optimus could guess where the worry came from, it only felt inconvenient and invasive.

Ratchet nodded in agreement still, "You're right. If you ever need to talk, and I do mean whenever, about anything…ya know you could always come to me, right?"

The Prime tilted his head to the side, smile still amiable, "I know, Ratch. Thank you. I always could count on you guys. If not you, Bumblebee, or Bulkhead. Prowl."

There was a sick sense of satisfaction that rippled through Optimus as Ratchet flinched even harder, expression changing completely at the mention of that last name, and even more so as Ratchet himself forced a shaky smile, pretending to agree with Optimus' statement.

He was aware, but that did not mean he actually gave a damn about what people thought. Not about Prowl.

/

As sure as he was about his stance on any other mech's opinions about his friend, he still needed to address things when it came to the newest members of his crew. Jazz and Ironhide were both truly competent, what with Jazz already having experience working alongside him and his teammates, and Ironhide was also cooperative.

There wasn't a problem with Ironhide. It was Jazz.

The cyberninja had been friendly, a real pleasure to work with due to his easy going attitude and positive nature, but that wasn't the case, recently. Jazz was far more withdrawn now, no longer his jokey, sociable self when he was in the crew's company. It was the most obvious when Optimus was around, striking up conversations with Jazz only to have the mech answer overly polite-like and with precise words, never allowing the chance to talk about things the way they once did.

Something was clearly disturbing his new teammate, and Optimus had the responsibility to find out what.

He had been expecting Jazz to be dismissive when he approached the mech with the subject, but he didn't anticipate the sudden harsh, bright glare from the cyberninja's visor, directed at him, before Jazz looked away and shook his head. The mech had never been too expressive, but Optimus could almost feel the negativity in that single look, focused entirely on him.

"What do you mean if there's somethin' wrong, OP?" Jazz said almost airily, despite the flat tone in his voice, "What could possibly be off?"

He didn't quite appreciate the subtle quip, "You tell me, Jazz. You've been acting like this for a while now, and it's my duty to figure out what's up with you and help you solve whatever's been eating at your spark. "

Jazz's head snapped up in something Optimus couldn't quite place, his mouth set in a thin, grim line. It was almost intimidating, but Optimus wasn't a Prime for nothing.

"Do ya really wanna know, Optimus?"

Optimus replied by shifting, his arms folding across his chest. He waited patiently.

Words spilled out of the cyberninja like a broken dam, harsh and unforgiving, spat out like they left a bad taste in his mouth, "What's bothering me is that—You and. You and Prowl. It's unnatural. You know he shouldn't be alive, he's not meant to be here and you know it, it's against the Well of All Sparks, against nature, it's against everything I've ever learned and stood for, everything everyone knows and you act like it's completely fine, you act like he's not fraggin' gray and you— you desecrate him—.

"Silence!"

He didn't realize how loud he had spoken, the mechanisms in his vocalizer straining at the volume of his voice, Optimus' shout ringing throughout the building. He was shaking, he realized, his fists curling and uncurling in an unconscious gesture of restraint. He wanted to hit something. He wanted to hit Jazz. But he wasn't enraged. Not even a little, far from it.

Jazz's expression had reverted back to that tight, solemn look again, and he spoke carefully, treading in dangerous waters, "…I apologize, sir. I've spoken out of line."

Instead of swelling hotly, Optimus' spark felt odd, it felt cold, the usual heat in his chest toned down. He wasn't angry, but he couldn't tell what he was feeling either. His hands kept moving.

"You have. But mistakes happen. Dismissed, Jazz."

He ignored the way Jazz walked stiffly away, without any of his casual gait. The atmosphere was tense, but Jazz left and Optimus was left with the odd emotion. He heard every word Jazz uttered, but cast them aside, much like he did his colleague. He hadn't the time for unnecessary negativity.

He did know what he was doing.

The odd emotion quietly registered itself as fear, but as everything else, Optimus dismissed it.

/

There was no knowing what brought on the sudden need for Bulkhead and Bumblebee to confront Optimus, but they did, and once again, Optimus waited patiently for his subordinates to speak their mind.

Bumblebee started, after shifting his feet a few times, "So, Optimus. We wanted to tell you this, but it's nothing super serious or whatever. We thought we should just let you know."

"Out with it, Bee," the Prime said, not unkindly.

The minibot offered a lopsided smile then, "About you and Prowl. We're okay with it. I mean of course we are, but we gotta admit it's a little weird, but we're totally fine with it. He's Prowl. We get it."

Bulkhead nodded, following suit, "Yeah. The two of you had always been close like that. So it doesn't matter, whatever it is, 'cause Prowl's Prowl, and you're you, and you guys are good for each other. Okay? It's just that you seem a little stressed out lately."

Optimus never felt as if he needed acceptance from his crew, not about this, but the smile that graced his faceplates was somewhat out of relief, still, and his spark felt lighter, "I'm fine. But I really appreciate you telling me, guys. It's good to hear."

"We don't know what exactly is going on with the guy, obviously, but he's back and that's great, right?" Bumblebee piped up, before pausing, "Sometimes it's like… it's like he's not entirely there, and it's a bit worrying, y'know, but we're fine with it. Right, Bulkhead?"

Bulkhead had been watching Bumblebee, his face a little grim, but he nodded right way, brightening his expression as he glanced up at Optimus, "Oh, yeah. Really fine about it. Just take care of him, Prime, okay?"

"He's fine," Optimus said, still quite elated by the approval of his crew, "Don't worry about him. Or me. We've never had to worry about Prowl, remember? That still applies."

Hesitantly, Bulkhead and Bumblebee smiled and agreed, but Optimus didn't notice the uncertainty on their faceplates. He felt validated. He was doing the right thing after all. Everything was going to be alright.

/

Optimus entered his quarters with a little smile on his faceplates, feeling fairly at ease with everything. The conversation with his two young crew members had righted qualms in his processor a little, he felt better about whatever was going on. Of course there wasn't anything wrong to begin with, but there was a time where it felt that way, and Optimus was weak enough to doubt himself and mostly, Prowl.

He wouldn't be making that mistake again.

Still smiling, he knocked lightly on the wall of his quarters to alert Prowl of his arrival. He wanted to lavish appreciation on his partner tonight. Prowl should know how much Optimus cherished him, and Optimus knew just the way to express himself.

Ah, but Prowl was in recharge.

So early, too. But it didn't matter. It wasn't as if Prowl would be angry if Optimus roused him awake for certain things, especially not for what the Prime had in mind. Optimus slid into berth next to his lover, hand reaching over to slide over sleek plating.

He could still remember very vividly the lustrous gold and black of Prowl's finish, the way they shone under the stray sun rays that stole in through the canopy of the large tree in Prowl's own chambers. He missed that, but it didn't matter. Prowl was here, by his side, and that was enough.

Optimus pushed his face against the side of Prowl's, absently kissing the mech's cheek. His fingers traced out seams and dips in armor, swiping over the rise of Prowl's chest piece. Usually, Prowl would have woken up by now, optics onlining slowly as he registered the intentional touches to his plating. He had always been alert, only letting his guard down just slightly when he was with Optimus. This was odd.

The Prime curved his hand over Prowl's chest, kissing his face again and again, "Prowl?"

He exerted a little pressure onto Prowl's plating, trying to jolt his partner awake, but nothing happened. Something was wrong.

"Prowl?" Optimus pushed himself up, panic rising in his spark like bile, bitter and heavy. He shook the mech by the shoulders slightly, before doing it again harder, Prowl's frame juddering with the force. His optics didn't online.

"Prowl," Optimus vocalizer strained to not shout, fear and anxiety seeming to have taken hold of him, and he hauled a leg to straddle Prowl's frame, leaning close with wide optics, trying to sense any sign of life from his colleague. But Prowl had always been this cold, had always been this gray ever since…

He patted Prowl's face, took hold of the mech's chin and lifted him up, and Prowl was dead weight in his hands. Like he really was—no it can't be, there was no way. Optimus just spoke to him earlier in the day! There was no way he could be—.

The need for Optimus to see Prowl react made him reach for every inch of Prowl; face, arms, abdomen, hips; his grip short of actually causing damage to the mech just so he would do something, anything.

"Wake up! Prowl, fragging wake up!" Optimus shouted then, his optics blurry from dread, clutching Prowl's hip so hard he felt it give way, and he jerked his hand away like he was burnt. Optimus stared at the dent he made, and made a noise that was almost a sob.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he gasped, leaning down to touch the dent soothingly, his face pressed against Prowl's in a plea, "Please forgive me. I need you to wake up. You have to wake up, you can't leave me now, not after everything. Prowl. I'm begging you. Prowl, please."

No answer. Optimus trembled, suddenly feeling vulnerable, like someone had peeled his plating back and what he was underneath was exposed for all to see. He felt indescribably lost, the emotion making him want to curl into himself and sob. Prowl was there, with him, Prowl was alive despite everything and now…and now.

But there wasn't a difference. His optics weren't online, there wasn't the gentle hum of his inner mechanisms, but his plating was still the same gray and he was terribly cold, like he had been, and there wasn't a difference—

Optimus kissed him, sloppily. Prowl wasn't kissing him back, but he gave it his all, covering Prowl's lip components with his to pour his spark into the gesture, as if it would make Prowl come back. Maybe it would. Optimus wasn't giving up just yet.

His hands roved over Prowl's unmoving frame, over his chest and waist and hips to push Prowl's legs apart, fingers brushing feather-light over the gray metal, just the way Prowl liked it. Optimus let out a broken sob, but kissed Prowl's face in worship. One of his hands stole away to lace his fingers with Prowl's hand, and the other drew nonsensical patterns over where the mech's panel was, before Optimus sought out the catch along the almost invisible seams of Prowl's panelling, and manually retracted it.

Optimus himself was getting hard, aroused, because there was no difference, there wasn't a single difference, Prowl's frame against him felt the same as ever, the cold metal biting, and maybe this would—maybe Prowl would—

He stuck his fingers in there, and Prowl wasn't wet at all, not the way he usually was and another cry ripped itself from the Prime's vocalizer. He was terrified, his fear was consuming him whole but he had to try, he had to, had to show Prowl how much he needed, wanted, and maybe—

Waiting would only spike his terror, so Optimus released himself and pushed in, going slow but shaking all the while, optics bright as he watched Prowl, looking for the flicker of the mech's visor.

It didn't happen. Not even when Optimus was fully sheathed inside, not when his hips met Prowl's plating. There wasn't a relieved sigh, or a touch to his face, or murmured words telling him that how it felt to have him inside. Optimus kissed Prowl then, feeling like he was about to fall apart, both hands now on Prowl's waist.

"Come back," he moaned, spark swirling madly with his emotions, "Please come back. I love you. I love you, Prowl, I need you."

Optimus moved, pulling back, wincing at how the drag of Prowl's dry valve chafed against his spike. It was something to ground him though, something to remind him that nothing was okay and he needed Prowl back, now, and Optimus gritted his teeth through the pain as he pushed back in again, watching Prowl.

Aside from the sting and the lack of a response, it was the same as ever, Prowl's frame and the almost overwhelming adoration Optimus had and the Prime couldn't help it, he couldn't stop it, he wanted Prowl so much he could go insane.

Pressing his face against Prowl's neck so he could focus on the idea of Prowl, on the mech in his arms rather than the fact that Prowl's optics weren't coming online, Optimus fucked him, hard and desperate. He wanted to drive his overpowering need for Prowl into the frame below him, over and over, till Prowl woke up and he'd be with Optimus again, present, and Optimus wouldn't ever let him sleep ever again and—

He overloaded, frame shuddering violently. It took him by surprise, his climax, having single-mindedly brought himself to completion with a sort of brutality, and he would've slumped over his partner before remembering. Optimus pulled himself up harshly, staring down at Prowl's face.

The blue visor was still dim, his faceplates expressionless. Optimus looked down, and noticed the dent in Prowl's hip before seeing the mess he made, transfluid spilling out of Prowl's valve in an obscene display. Optimus' momentary warmth dissipated into something cold, icy tendrils of fear piercing his spark, taking root.

What had he done?

He pulled himself out and away from Prowl, spike snapping back into its housing, his optics wide and his hands shaking again. Fumbling, he closed Prowl's valve, pretending as if he didn't see the fluids leaking from the orifice. Optimus got off of Prowl, and stared from a distance, not quite believing what had happened, what he had done.

And Prowl wasn't awake. Was he dead, or was he sleeping, Optimus didn't know, but it seemed like…

He should tell someone.

Then what? They'd see his—they'd realize that he had…he desecrated Prowl, he just—Primus, he didn't even think about it. He just. Did.

He needed to get out of the room.

Optimus left the berth, almost tripping over his feet to get away, half hoping and half dreading that Prowl would come awake now. But he didn't, his frame as still as death itself, and Optimus turned his face away from the berth. Guilt was heavy in his spark, fear even more so, but he needed to get out, he needed time to think, to breathe.

Prowl was dead, and for real, this time.

/

The drive did nothing to calm himself down. It did nothing for the pressing weight in his chest, nothing for what happened, what he'd done, but he knew that he couldn't just leave Prowl in his berth. He had to—had to pay his respects, clean his friend, offer him traditional words of parting.

He had to tell his crew, he had to get ready for the, for the funeral and oh Primus…

Optimus didn't want to, but he must. It was the least he could do for his friend, his Prowl.

He returned to base with anxiety in his circuits, his hands shaking before he curled them into fists. He was a Prime. He had duties. Prowl meant everything to him, means everything to him, but he couldn't just drop his responsibilities for a single mech. That would be selfish. He needed to let Prowl go.

It was ironic how he had told himself the same thing the first time Prowl died, and failed spectacularly at that. He can't afford to repeat the same mistake. Not after how he—the way he…

Steeling himself, Optimus stood tall, striding to his quarters. He could do it, he could touch Prowl, he must, he needed to make his friend presentable. He had done what he had done but he needed to still—

Optimus froze. His optics went wide in disbelief. Prowl was gone.

Did they find him? Did they see his fluids all over the dead frame, did they know? Primus, oh lord, Primus, Primus…

He left his quarters, frame not quite feeling like his own. He felt disembodied, like a wraith, walking throughout the base to find an answer, anything, anyone. It was extremely late, they were all supposed to be asleep, but Prowl couldn't have disappeared just like that. Someone must have known.

It wasn't until he heard low mumbling, deeper in the building, where they used to train, and where Ratchet did his work, did the Prime snap out of his reverie. Optimus approached the voices, dread creeping up his spark like a sentient thing, unsettling and heavy, because it seemed like he heard—it seemed like…

Ratchet was bent over a gray frame, lightly hammering out the dent Optimus had caused. Optimus himself stood before the scene stiffly, and he wanted to scream from how suddenly terrified he was, the fear a gaping, aching hole in his sanity.

A gray hand lifted to gently touch Ratchet's shoulder, easing him away. The medic's expression was something odd, something more than concern and confusion, but Optimus never noticed. He was transfixed on the supine frame slowly sitting up, without any evidence of his earlier transgression, and Prowl smiled at him.

That painted smile, the same smile that had been gracing his features ever since his resurrection, and his words were soft.

"What are you doing, Optimus?"


End file.
